The Gift of Men
by Elf Eye
Summary: Legolas confronts the fact that Aragorn will die. This story may be considered part of the "Nameless One" series because in it Legolas will be cast as Aragorn's foster brother.


**My stories sometimes track Tolkien's version of Middle-earth, sometimes Jackson's.**

**I am delighted to receive any and all responses, whether reviewers are logged in or not. If you do happen to be logged in, I will use the reply feature to get back to you unless you have disabled the private messaging feature. (Please notice that the fanfiction site has changed its system so that responses to reviews go out via the private messaging feature. That is why the people who have disabled that feature have not heard back from me.)**

**This story may incorporate incidents and/or quotations from the book and/or movie versions of **_**The Hobbit **_**and**_** The Lord of the Rings**_**. The chapter may also draw upon posthumous publications edited by Christopher Tolkien, such as **_**The Silmarillion**_**. **

**Beta Reader: Dragonfly is the beta reader for **_**Parallel Quest**_**, but shorter pieces are posted without a reader. If you catch any errors, please let me know.**

From the first, Gandalf had had grey hair. He had arrived at Mithlond in the guise of an old Man, his face liver-spotted and lined, hair grizzled and thinning at the crown, his fingers gnarled and horny. Certainly when Legolas first met Gandalf, the Istar already had the appearance of an elder amongst Men. Legolas had been Anomen then, a timid elfling hiding in a tree and peering down upon the strange creature crouched over a campfire. 'He has got a horse's tail on his face', the young elfling had marveled.

Because Legolas had never known Gandalf to be anything but an old Man, the young Elf had never been troubled by the fact that the wizard's hair was grey. It was of a piece with Gandalf's other peculiarities. Aragorn, however, should not have had grey hair. The Elf had met Estel when the human had been a toddler, and the youngling had had hair so dark as to be nearly black. Therefore, one rainy afternoon, after Legolas had not seen Aragorn for several months, the Elf was startled to see several grey hairs tucked behind the Dúnadan's ear when the Man pushed back his hood to greet him.

"Wes thu hal!" cried the Man, who had lately taken up the language of Rohan.

"Mae govannen," Legolas replied weakly. His friend looked at him sharply. "If you were not an Elf," the Ranger said, "I would say that you were ill. Is everything well at Rivendell?" the Man added, suddenly looking anxious.

'It is Imladris!' Legolas wanted to cry. He wished that his Estel had nothing of the Man about him. His mannish language, his Dúnadan garb, the beard upon his face—Legolas wished them gone. 'The blood of Eärendil runs in Estel's veins', the Elf thought to himself. 'Why then cannot he be like Elrond? Why must he instead follow the path of Elros?' Why, wondered Legolas, must Elros' choice dictate the fate of all who followed him? Why could not each generation choose anew? Here, of course, Legolas was ignoring the fact that many generations stood between Aragorn and Eärendil. The Ranger's elven blood was much diluted; as a matter of practicality, he could claim descent from the Eldar in name only, and this had been true of his father and his father's father before him.

Legolas had understood from the first that Estel was a human—ergo 'mortal'. But before today the word had meant little to him. Until he had reached manhood, Aragorn had dressed as an Elf and spoken Sindarin. All his manners and gestures were elven. He had 'aged', yes, but as Elrohir, Elladan, and Legolas himself had aged, growing from childhood to adulthood. The Dúnadan had come near dying several times, it was true, but always in the manner of an Elf who might fall in battle. Legolas himself had more than once come close to dying in the same fashion, injured in a skirmish and nursed back to health by Elrond.

Today, however, was different. Elves matured, but they never journeyed past maturity to old age. No Elf ever sported grey hair; their skin remained supple and unmarked by blemishes, and their limbs retained their strength. Now Aragorn's grey hair reminded Legolas that a Man's life followed the arc of an arrow shot into the air. From infancy a Man rose to the vigor of adulthood—and then declined into old age and death.

"Legolas," Aragorn interrupted the Elf's thoughts. "Legolas, is all well at Rivendell?"

"Your pardon, Aragorn," Legolas apologized. "My thoughts were elsewhere."

"Indeed! Several leagues away, I should think," Aragorn said dryly. "Now you are returned, answer my question, I pray you. Is all well at Rivendell?"

"The wall of Elrond's study has a crack needs plastering," Legolas said with mock seriousness, trying by means of banter to hide his distress. "The trellis that was built to replace the one you broke climbing has lately lost a slat. Birds are nesting atop the statue of Gil-galad that stands next the fountain, and Elrond refuses to let the Gardener clear the clutter until the nestlings have fledged. Oh, and Figwit has set another tapestry on fire."

"Figwit should not be permitted a candle," Aragorn observed. "How many tapestries is that?"

"Three. One depicting the fleet at Mithlond, another adorned with mallorn trees, and a third presented to Elrond by the King of Rohan."

"I liked that last one," exclaimed Aragorn. "It had a great horse in the center, its rider clutching a banner in one hand and a lance in the other."

"Fortunately that and the others were not scorched past mending."

"That is good to know. But Legolas, you know very well that I was not asking after Rivendell itself but after the folk who dwell there."

Legolas smiled. He knew Aragorn was concerned about one person in particular. "Arwen is well," the Elf assured the human.

Aragorn, who throughout the bantering had evinced an alertness that bespoke his concern, relaxed and allowed his shoulders to slump a little. He unfastened his pack and pulled forth a pipe. Legolas groaned. "Must you fill the air with the odor of that noxious weed?"

"Gandalf smokes," Aragorn pointed out as he filled the bowl.

"I object to his smoking as well," Legolas retorted.

"You like his smoke creatures well enough."

"When I was an elfling, yes, but I have grown in wisdom."

"Grown! You don't look a day older."

"You do," Legolas blurted out.

Aragorn put down his pipe and looked keenly at his friend. "What is troubling you, Legolas?"

"These many months you have been on patrol, you haven't had a mirror, have you, Aragorn?"

"No, unlike a certain Elf I might name, I do not travel with said article. I gather that something about my appearance troubles you."

"You have got some grey hairs," Legolas said miserably.

"Have I? They are the mark of wisdom, Legolas. Men will be the more inclined to listen to me in council."

'They are the mark of mortality', Legolas said silently. Aloud he said nothing. Aragorn continued to study him. "Legolas," he said at last, "I venture grey hairs mean something different to you than to me."

The Elf could restrain himself no longer. "You are going to die, Aragorn!"

"True," Aragorn replied calmly, "and of old age if I am fortunate."

"Fortunate! How fortunate?"

"Would you rather that I die in battle and so enjoy a lesser span of years?"

"I should rather that you not die at all!"

"A Man cannot evade death."

"I wish you were free to make the choice of Elros and Elrond—and that you would follow in the path of Elrond."

"I may still choose."

"What choice remains to you?" Legolas said morosely.

"To live well so that I may die well. When I was a youth, Gandalf once said to me, 'All we have to decide is what to do with the time that is given to us'. I know that my life will have an end, so I must use my time well. Indeed, I must do better than an Elf in that regard, for I will not have an eternity to make amend for any lapses on my part!"

Aragorn's latter words, an attempt to rally Legolas, failed to have the desired effect, for Legolas still looked miserable.

Aragorn tried again. "It is the way of Men, Legolas. I was with a band of Rohirrim upon a time. We were surrounded by rogues and renegades—Easterlings, Southrons, Dunlendings. Yet our chieftain did not quail. 'If this is to be our end, then I would have us make such an end as to be worthy of remembrance', he proclaimed. It is the manner in which a Man comports himself in life that makes the prospect of death bearable."

"But are you not afraid?"

"Afraid of death? I could ask the same question of you. You enter into battle knowing full well that you may be slain. Are you not afraid of death, Legolas?"

Legolas considered. "I am not afraid of death," he said slowly. "I will own, however, that I am afraid of dying."

"I suspect I know what you mean by that distinction," Aragorn nodded, "but I should like to hear your account."

"I have seen folk die in battle, friend and foe alike, and I shall never forget their cries. 'Nana' the Elves cry; 'Mama' shriek the Men. It is all the same: horror and pain. I dread the prospect of the act of dying. As to death itself, I cannot fear it. Perhaps I shall cease to be and so shall not know that I am dead. Or death may be as the legends say: a place where we shall dwell with those who have departed before us."

"I remember," mused Aragorn, "that Gandalf once described a place where folk might dwell after death."

"Tell me about it," Legolas said quickly. As Aragorn had, he suspected he knew the tale, but he likewise desired to hear it told by his friend.

"Gandalf said," recited Aragorn, "that 'death is just another path, one that we all must take. The grey curtain of this world rolls back and all turns to silvered glass. And then you see it'."

"What, Aragorn? See what?" Legolas said eagerly.

"White shores, and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise."

Legolas sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, allowing his mind to fill with images of a strand shimmering white in the sun, with trees standing tall and green just beyond, offering fruit and shade. It seemed to him that he saw in the white sand two pairs of footsteps that marked the path of two folk who had walked side by side. One pair of footsteps was smaller than the other. Was this the path of Aragorn and Arwen?

When the Elf opened his eyes, Aragorn was smiling at him. "Your opinion of the prospect, Master Elf?" said the Man.

"I suppose it would not be so dreadful," Legolas conceded. "Although," he added, "we have no assurance that what Gandalf has said is true!"

Aragorn shrugged. "If it is not true, then I shall not know it."

"You are forgetting those you will leave behind," Legolas chided him. "_I_ shall know that you are not with me."

Aragorn extended his hand and touched a forefinger to Legolas's temple. "I'll be right here," he said. He lowered his hand and touched Legolas's breast. "I'll be right here," he repeated.

Legolas sighed again. Estel's promise would have to do. Like all Elves, the Sinda had been brought up to understand that virtue consists in a will which is in agreement with Nature. That is, one must maintain inner calm and self-control in the face of circumstances which one could not control. He could not change the fact of Aragorn's mortality; he was free to chose how to react to that fact, however, and a wise individual would not choose to make himself unhappy over something that he could not control.

Night was falling, and Legolas and Aragorn set aside their conversation to make camp. The next morning the Sinda and the Dúnadan ate a leisurely breakfast, an indulgence they rarely enjoyed, and afterwards they set out together for Rivendell. As they rode, they exchanged news of the borders.

"I saw nothing between Rivendell and the Brandywine Bridge that would suggest that enemy has set a watch upon the Shire," Aragorn told the Elf.

"Did you learn anything in Bree?" Legolas asked.

Aragorn grimaced. "Only that the Men of Bree have little imagination when it comes to epithets. Upon a time they called me Trotter, then Longshanks. This trip they dubbed me Strider. It seems that my legs are the only feature that they find worthy of notice."

"It is as well," Legolas said, "for Mithrandir deems that you must walk the path of secrecy yet a little while longer."

"A path he walks as well," rejoined Aragorn. "I wonder when he will see fit to tell us what he finds so intriguing about the Shire."

Legolas shrugged. "A wizard is never late, Aragorn. Nor is he early. He takes action precisely when he needs to, and not a moment sooner."

"True," Aragorn nodded. "But from _you_ I need brook no delay. What news from the Misty Mountains?"

"Not as good as the news from Bree."

"The Orcs have returned?"

"Yes, and in greater numbers than before. It seems that the combined Lothlórien and Rivendell patrols have merely bought us a little time. The Goblins were driven back from the passes, true, but once the weather worsened and the patrols were forced to withdraw, the curséd creatures crept back from the crevasses into which they had fled."

"We must send out an even larger force," Aragorn declared. "Gandalf avows that we _must_ keep open the path to Lothlórien. You must ask your father to send some of his warriors. If Rivendell, Lórien, and Mirkwood join forces, perhaps that would suffice."

"I shall send word," Legolas promised. "But," he added somberly, "in my father's last missive, he reported that the attacks on Mirkwood increase. He will not be able to spare many warriors. Indeed, I expect he will soon insist that _I _return to the Great Hall, and this time I do not think I will be able to put him off. We may not ride together again for many months, my friend."

"I shall find a reason to journey to Mirkwood," Aragorn promised. "I am sure of it. In fact, Gandalf says he has a commission for me that involves tracking a creature, and he tells me that if I catch it I must take it to Mirkwood, for Rivendell has no dungeons, nor has Lórien any."

Legolas winced. The dungeons of the Great Hall were a sore point for him. Mithrandir was forever reminding him that his father, King Thranduil, had locked a party of Dwarves in those dungeons. 'Pretty poor hospitality, I should say', the wizard would huff. 'Friends of mine, too, but even if they weren't, is that any way to treat travelers, I ask you?'

'They were Dwarves', Legolas would remind him defensively.

'Don't make no never mind', Mithrandir would retort. 'Dwarves are numbered amongst the Free Folk'.

Legolas never had an answer to this latter argument and would always fall into a sulky silence. Aragorn knew of this ongoing dispute between Istar and Elf, and now he looked over at his friend and laughed. "You should be glad, Legolas. Now Gandalf will have no cause to complain about your father's dungeons."

This brought an answering laugh from the Elf. "True, Aragorn," he said cheerfully. "The dungeons will have served our wizard in this case."

"Of course," Aragorn observed slyly, "you Elves had better not lose this captive, as you formerly lost those Dwarves."

Legolas didn't wince this time, but he could have. The Elves were renowned for their good eyesight, and Legolas had exceptional vision even for an Elf, but none of his folk had espied a Perian who had somehow crept into the Great Hall. This Perian—one of the 'Hobbits' of whom Mithrandir was so fond—had proceeded to set free the Dwarves in some yet-unexplained fashion. Legolas was forever being twitted on this account by Elrohir and Elladan and the Lórien brothers.

Bantering on this and other subjects, the two friends rode on that day and the two following ones, and at the end of the third day, they found themselves dismounting before a stable in the valley called by Men Rivendell and by the Elves Imladris. In this valley stood Elrond's hall, a dwelling known to all as the Last Homely House East of the Sea. To this hall the travelers hastened after seeing to their horses. They made first for one of the bathing chambers—Aragorn because he knew Arwen would wish it, Legolas because he never overlooked an opportunity to bathe.

After scrubbing off the dust of his journey, Legolas went to the chamber where he was accustomed to stay when visiting Rivendell. There clean garments awaited him, and the young Elf smiled when he saw the familiar stitching of his Edwen Nana, who still insisted on embroidering all his garments, the sole exception being his small clothes, which even Edwen Nana had to concede needed no ornamentation.

The two travelers had arrived after the supper hour, but Legolas found that a tray of cheese, fruit, bread, and cold meats had been placed in his chamber while he bathed. He smiled when he picked up a saucer and saw underneath it a biscuit. His old nemesis, the Head Cook, was still finding excuses to slip him sweets.

As he finished his supper, he heard a knock upon the door. "Enter," he called. "Mithrandir," he cried happily when his friend and mentor poked his head in at the door.

"Not too late for a chat, I hope," said the wizard.

"Never too late," exclaimed Legolas, picking up a goblet and a bottle of Dorwinion wine.

"It _will_ be too late if I indulge in that," said the Istar, waving off the proffered cup. "I am tired, for I only arrived a few hours ago—not long after you and Aragorn, I believe. I am carrying a letter for you, however, so I thought I'd stop a bit before turning in."

The wizard reached in his pouch and drew out a letter only a little worse for wear. Legolas saw at once that the seal was that of his father. A little reluctantly he took the letter and broke the seal. Reading it, he sighed.

"I would guess from that glum face that your father bids you return to Mirkwood," remarked Gandalf.

Legolas nodded.

"Yet you will return soon enough, I'll warrant. And, as you are an immortal Elf, you will still have an eternity in which to frolic with your friends."

"No, I won't," Legolas said bluntly. "I may be immortal, Mithrandir, but Aragorn is not. The days I spend in Mirkwood, are days that I shall never recover to spend in Estel's company."

"It cannot be helped, Legolas," Gandalf said kindly.

Legolas jumped up and began to pace. "Mithrandir, I do not understand why Men must be mortal!" he exclaimed.

"It must be so because death brings the greatest good for the greatest number of people."

Legolas stopped and stared at the wizard. "The greatest good for the greatest number of people," he repeated, nonplussed.

"Havo dad, Legolas," Gandalf said gently.

The Elf obeyed, still staring at the wizard.

"Now, as a general rule," Gandalf began, "parents take great joy in their children."

"Ye-es," agreed Legolas slowly. In his own case, his father, grieving the death of his wife, had at first been unable to take joy in his son. Now, however, Thranduil's love for his Legolas was unmistakable.

"In their love for their children, the parents would not deny them any joys—including the joys with which they themselves are familiar."

Legolas nodded.

"Since the parents derived great joy from _being_ parents, would they not want their own children to be fathers and mothers of a subsequent generation?"

"I suppose that would be the case," conceded Legolas.

"It is also to be expected that their children would want their _own_ offspring to experience the same joys."

Legolas signified his assent.

"Now I want you to imagine, Legolas," the wizard went on, "that Men were immortal. The first parents of Men would still live, and their children would still dwell in Arda, and the children of their children, and their children's children's children, and—"

"You need say no more, Mithrandir," Legolas said wryly. "Middle-earth by now would be overrun by humans had this been the case. Even so tiny a creature as an ant would scarcely be able to find refuge amidst the feet that would trample the soil to rock."

"I see that you understand the conundrum, my lad. Elves have been blessed with immortality, but there are few among them who experience the joy of parenthood. It must be so, for the one precludes the other. Humans on the other hand, are born to die, yet it is that curse which allows them to bring children into the world, children who will in turn experience the happiness vouchsafed their parents—but only because those parents are mortal, as were their parents before them."

"Yes, a conundrum," agreed Legolas. "You say that the Elves are blessed and humans cursed. It could just as easily be said that it is the humans who are blessed and the Elves cursed."

"I cannot argue with that assertion," said the wizard. "It is sometimes said that the Gift that Ilúvatar bestowed upon Men was that they not be bound to the Circles of the Earth. If that be a Gift, then it was something that Ilúvatar denied the Eldar."

Legolas now no longer felt agitated at the prospect of his friend's death. Indeed, he felt quite calm. "I would deny Estel no happiness," he told the wizard. "I would not wish him to forgo the joy of fathering a child. Nor would I wish to deny him the hope that his child shall be equally joyous. If the Estel must die to be happy, then so be it. It seems a paradox, but I shall rail against it no more."

Mithrandir smiled and pulled out a pipe. Legolas scowled. "Pipe weed again!"

"You would deny Aragorn no joy," the wizard said with a straight face, "but you would deny me this one pleasure?"

"Oh, smoke if you must," huffed Legolas, "but don't expect me to keep you company."

The Elf threw himself on his bed and was almost immediately asleep. As for Gandalf, he thoughtfully puffed upon his pipe for a time as he contemplated his young friend.

'It will be harder for him than for Aragorn, I think', the wizard mused. 'Aragorn will accept his death cheerfully, knowing what it is he leaves behind. Legolas, however, must accept the death of one he loves and be the one who _is_ left behind. And not the death of Aragorn alone must he endure. Legolas will suffer the loss of many, always remaining as a witness as one by one his friends slip away. Whom will he have at the end, I wonder'.

Gandalf sat silently a little longer. A sliver of moonlight came in at the casement and fell upon the face of the Elf, who smiled a little in his sleep.

"He looks downright ethereal, what with that silver light shining upon him," muttered the wizard. "How very different the Elves are from other races. Middle-earth is truly a remarkable place, that it should harbor such a variety of folk. Everyone from that Elf there to the stubbiest of Dwarves. Now there's a race that has its feet planted firmly in the earth! One might think that Ilúvatar planned that the one folk were to complement the other: the Elves with their heads in the stars, the Dwarves with their spades in the soil."

Gandalf had almost finished his bowl of pipe weed. He sent several vaporous gulls to soar over the head of his young friend. "Ah, my dear lad," he sighed, "I hope you are not alone in the end."

The wizard tapped out his bowl. "I must think on it," he said thoughtfully. "Surely Eru would not be pleased that one of his Children should be left bereft."

The Istar arose. Placing his pipe in his pouch, he strode to the door. There he paused to look back one last time at the sleeping Elf. "I must think on it," he repeated as he turned to leave the chamber.

Behind him the gulls slowly dissolved into a mist that reformed into a new shape: a boat that sailed a few times about the head of the Elf and then floated out the window. To the West the vessel sailed, its sheets shimmering in the moonlight, until, at last long, like Eärendil's boat, it seemed to take its place among the stars.


End file.
